


Friends (With Benefits)

by devils_trap



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, PWP underage best friend-y goodness, Supernatural References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 08:16:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devils_trap/pseuds/devils_trap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raunchy horror flicks and working parents can really change a friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friends (With Benefits)

They probably should’ve known before they started wrestling around on the Stilinski living room floor that it would happen, ‘cause they’re thirteen and a weak wind can make them pop wood, but they’re excited and don’t have to go to bed at all because it’s Friday and both of Stiles’ parents and Scott’s mother are at work, so they’ve got the house to themselves. They eat ice cream for dinner and watch horror films on the couch with the volume up louder than Stiles’ mom allows. Some of them are old and genuinely good, but the others are new and generally shit but the surplus of topless, screaming chicks will always outweigh plotholes, fake blood that might as well be watered down ketchup, and bad acting.

After a particularly raunchy one, Stiles and Scott are keyed up and both trying to hide their wood. Scott makes a grab for the pillow already situated in Stiles’ lap without thinking, and Stiles promptly smacks away the extended hand.

“Get your own pillow, bitch,” Stiles teases, sticking his tongue out.

“Oh yeah?” Scott counters and blows some of his hair out of his face.

“You’re supposed to say jerk. Jerk.” Jesus, did Scott pay attention during Supernatural at all?

Jared Padalecki and Jensen Ackles are attractive and all, and he saw the way Scott was trying (and failing) to hide his drool, but c’mon. The Winchester brothers being hot—for weeks Stiles has been having wet dreams about helping them vanquish a poltergeist and then letting them have their dirty, dirty way with him right next to the dug up grave, many times and in many different positions—is just a perk on top of how bad ass that show is.

“I’ll show you jerk!” Scott pounces like a mentally handicapped house cat, all flailing limbs and slow reflexes but he deserves an A for effort if you squint. He awkwardly jabs his elbow into Stiles’ stomach as he tugs them both to the floor, shoulders jarring with the impact. He wriggles around, coltish legs and spindly fingers looking for purchase along Stiles’ body, nails biting into the flesh of Stiles’ forearm and the exposed strip of skin above the waistband of his pajama bottoms. It’s getting harder for him to breathe through the exertion, what with the asthma and the boner-that-could, and Scott should have really waited for it to go away before jumping Stiles but he kind of forgot about it. Besides, it feels good and there’s no way Scott is stopping now, anyhow, not when he almost has Stiles subdu—

Stiles flips them, and Scott’s head bounces against the hardwood floor. He’s sitting across Scott’s lap, knees locked tightly around skinny hips, and he has Scott’s wrists clasped above his head. In the dim lighting only half of Stiles’ face is illuminated and that’s due only to the menu screen of that D-list horror film playing over and over behind them. A raised knife and a set of bouncing tits flicker across the right side of Stiles’ face, catching the glint in his brown eyes. There’s the faint taste of blood in Stiles’ mouth from where he bit down on his lower lip in concentration.

“Easy there, tiger,” Stiles says, trying his hardest to capture Dean Winchester’s easy swagger and devil-may-care attitude while pining a dude to the ground with just his body and presence. He manages to conjure up a little of it and hold it (a good 13%, Stiles would say, but it’s not his fault anyway; he’s more of a Sam, thank you very much) until he realizes that he’s been slowly grinding his dick into Scott’s youth-soft stomach, and there’s an answering hardness pressing up insistently into the seat of his thin pajama bottoms. The bottoms they’re both wearing (sans boxers, it had been a good idea at the time to go commando, it was—they even shook on it) are so thin from repeated washing that Stiles can clearly make out the shape of Scott’s dick.

The air seems to leave the room, Stiles holding his breath and Scott’s face is so red that Stiles is getting concerned he’s fucked this up, he’s fucked up his only friendship by rubbing his dick against his best friend and maybe causing him to have an asthma attack.

Shit, where’s the emergency inhaler Stiles started keeping around last month—

Scott makes a pained sound when Stiles begins to apologize profusely and scurry off. With his hands free now, he slaps one over Stiles’ mouth and clamps the other down hard on Stiles’ hip to hold him in place. He’s still breathing hard but this doesn’t feel like an asthma attack. He’s warm low down in his gut and his heart is beating so fast it’s practically crawling up his throat, but Scott doesn’t feel panicked at all. He should be panicking, Stiles’ boner is against his stomach and, shit, his boner’s against Stiles’ ass, but he’s not. Maybe later, but not now.

Without thinking about it Stiles runs the tip of his tongue against Scott’s palm, and he whines in the back of his throat when Scott shivers under him and pushes his hips up against Stiles’ ass. Scott does it again when Stiles is fully seated once more, and it reminds him of when Stiles’ dad let them ride on that mechanical bull when they took that trip last summer to the Grand Canyon. Up and down Stiles goes as Scott does it again, and again, and again. Weedy knees dig into Scott’s sides as Stiles grinds down in earnest, the prize in sight and nothing, not Heaven, Hell, or anything short of Stiles’ father coming home and seeing them like this with a shotgun in hand is going to stop Stiles from coming, from making Scott come beneath him.

They moan at each other when Stiles starts grinding down harder, and suddenly Scott’s hands are both on Stiles’ hips, and Stiles’ face is pressed into the crook of Scott’s neck, breathing wetly against the flushed skin there. The way Stiles presses his mouth against Scott’s throat can’t be called kissing, not really, he’s just dragging his lips around all the skin he can reach and occasionally nipping at Scott’s Adam’s apple, but it makes Scott keen and throw his hips up harder, faster. He’s furiously shoving at Stiles’ pants, little “off’s” and “please’s” falling from Scott’s mouth like a broken record as Stiles finally, blessedly gets with the program and pushes both of their pajamas down. It’s weird to have their pants trapped around the bottoms of their thighs, but the skin contact is good, so good, and Stiles is bouncing a little more each time Scott fucks up against him, and, God, the sounds Stiles is making.

Scott didn’t really know he wanted this a day ago or, hell, when they both decided to go commando earlier and were naked and shoving their legs into the pajama pants now around their knees, but now he never wants anything other than his eyes rolling back as his balls draw up tight into his body. And he comes, comes, comes against the underside of Stiles’ dick. He comes harder than he ever has in his life, smearing it along Stiles’ balls and the backs of his thighs. The vibrations from Stiles’ keening births goosebumps up and down Scott’s body, and he digs his fingers into Stiles’ hips as hard as he can as he rides out his orgasm until his dick feels tingly like a live wire.

Stiles’ asscheeks fit perfectly in the palm of his hand, Scott notices when his hands slide down after he’s finished, and he digs his nails into the meat of them as he breathless urges Stiles on.

Then Scott gets an idea. He’s seen it in porn and he doesn’t know if Stiles will like it, but he squeezes the globes once more anyway, almost for good luck, and let’s his fingers dance down Stiles’ crack.

Stiles flinches away like Scott hit him when his fingertips brush against his hole, and Scott’s nervous he did something wrong until Stiles is throwing himself back, back, back, until the tip of Scott’s index finger is wriggling inside and Stiles is so warm inside and he’s making these high pitched, punched out noises that sound like they hurt, and then he’s coming so hard he’s shaking.

They stay like that, come cooling on Scott’s t-shirt and Stiles’ junk, well after Stiles gives this hiccuping sigh and wilts against Scott. Stiles might be skinny as hell but dead weight isn’t fun no matter who it is, and Scott lets him rest for as long as he can take it.

Then he pushes Stiles off.

Stiles rolls gracelessly beside him, his heather gray t-shirt sweated through in places, arms akimbo and chest still heaving. There’s a bit of jizz on the lower left side, and Scott is pretty sure that’s not his but who knows. Scott blacked out a little when he came.

After a handful of minutes more of silence, Stiles croaks, “Dude.”

“Yeah,” Scott breathes. To be honest, Scott’s waiting for the fallout because there’s always fallout with shit like this, right? But it never comes. Stiles has this stupid, lazy grin on his face and it’s contagious because the next thing Scott knows, he’s grinning like a dumbass back at Stiles and, really, things are looking like they’re gonna be okay.

“Wanna get more snacks and then do that again?” Stiles asks, propped up on his elbows. He’s looking down his upturned nose at Scott and God he looks good like that, his lips red and swollen from being bitten, his cheeks fresh with color. Stiles let his hair grow out since the last time his dad buzzed it because his mom liked when he gelled it up, and it’s sticking up at all angles and it’s cute as shit and God when did Stiles get cute?

“Yeah.” Scott props himself up, too, and for a moment they just look at each other. Stiles’ eyes never stray far from Scott’s mouth (mainly because Scott keeps licking it, for Christ’s sake, maybe they won’t even need snacks and a break because Stiles’ dick is making an extremely valiant effort to meet Scott’s again). He wants to try everything Scott will let him, and he wants to let Scott do whatever he wants to him in return.

The thing—the thing with the finger and his ass, Stiles was startled by how much he liked that.

“C’mon, bitch.” On the legs of a newborn deer, Stiles makes his way to his feet and holds out his hand for Scott.[  
](http://devils-trap.tumblr.com/post/32379891181/they-probably-shouldve-known-before-they-started)

They’re hand-in-hand and heaving Scott off the floor when he replies, “Yeah, yeah, jerk.”

Things are gonna be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on my [Tumblr](http://devils-trap.tumblr.com/post/32379891181/they-probably-shouldve-known-before-they-started), and may become a series if I ever finish the second part.


End file.
